Still Here, Still Me
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Born Under a Bad Sign tag: Dean just needs a little space to breathe...


**Still Here, Still Me**  
K Hanna Korossy

Sometimes, winning only meant making it out alive.

It didn't feel like much more than that as Sam leaned back in the passenger seat and tried to put his fragmented thoughts together. A week-plus gone. His body shanghaied, his mind rifled through, his memories blank, his hands shedding blood, all without his will or even knowledge. "Meg" returning, and now at large.

Dean silently sitting next to him, battered and bruised in patterns that matched Sam's knuckles.

He knew in his head he wasn't to blame, that Dean didn't blame him. Possession left you no control, despite what their dad may or may not have done in that shack a few months back. It hadn't been Sam in the most important ways, the destined-to-go-evil ways.

But his face was the last one Steve Wandell had seen, the one that had leered at Dean while pounding him into the ground. It was his body that ached from unknown abuse and his arm that burned. Dean said Meg had tormented Jo, too, but it was from Sam's hands she would remember receiving the torture. Not to mention whatever Meg had pulled out of his mind, his most private thoughts and memories…

Sam shivered, wondering if this was what being raped felt like.

Dean's eyes cut his way, then he reached over to turn up the heat. Sam didn't miss his wince at the movement. He'd seen the way Dean clutched his left arm to himself and the cuts and bruises on his face, and wondered just how much damage he'd inflicted on his big brother.

He didn't wonder at all why Dean had let him.

Sam shifted in his seat, stifling a wince of his own at sore muscles. The memory gaps were what scared him the most. All he could remember was Wandell's death, which left an awful lot of time unaccounted for. Time to torture Jo. Time to hurt Dean. Again.

Sam's expression twisted.

"You keep doing that, your face is gonna freeze that way," Dean said tiredly next to him. His voice sounded too neutral, and determinedly not weak.

Sam didn't realize until then that he'd been waiting for Dean to break the ice even though they'd talked a little before. He took a breath, opened and closed his mouth once before finally hunting down the right words. "Dean…what happened exactly?"

His brother glanced at him again, face pale in the passing streetlights. This probably wasn't the best time for this, but Sam's stomach was eating away at itself, and he knew exhaustion might weaken Dean's self-censoring. Damn him, but Sam wasn't above taking advantage of that.

Dean took a shallow breath, deflating with the expiration.

"I already told you."

"You told me I tied up and threatened Jo, and that I went a few rounds with you. That's not exactly a lot of detail, man."

"Does it matter?" Dean's eyes were where his real fatigue lay, dull and wide and constantly sliding away from him. "A play-by-play isn't going to help anything."

"I just…I have all these blanks in my head I can't fill in, Dean, and then I look at you and I can't help thinking the worst—"

"It's not the worst, Sammy," Dean said quietly. "We're here, Meg or whatever she is, isn't. Things could be a lot more messed up than this."

Sam shook his head, also feeling utterly worn out in ways that were only partly physical. "I know. And…I'm grateful for what you and Bobby did." He ignored Dean's _well, duh! _tilt of the head. "But I can't help wondering, you know? If I hurt Jo, what I did to—"

"Oh, hey, look. Motel. What do you know." The Impala was already crunching on gravel in the small strip-motel parking lot. "You wanna go get us a room?" Dean glanced at Sam.  
Sam's jaw set. "Dean, I need to—"

"I know, you need to know what you did. I get it." Dean parked and turned toward Sam. "But, dude, it's been a _really _long week, I'm pretty sure you haven't gotten a lot of sleep, and I know I haven't. Can we postpone the trip down memory lane until we're not about to fall on our faces? 'Cause that would be _really_ embarrassing."

Sam stared at him a moment, seeing the white-knuckled grip Dean had on the steering wheel, the rigor in his small smile, the body language that was shouting—at least to Sam—that Dean was on his last legs. Sam swallowed, slowly nodding. "Yeah, all right. But you're not getting out of this."

Dean froze, just for a second. Then his smile widened into a grimace. "Never doubted it." He sounded resigned, empty.

Sam stared at him a moment, then finally huffed and climbed out of the car. Dean was right: they needed rest. Sam had no idea when he'd last slept, but it felt like over a week. And Dean really did look ready to fall over. Asking Sam to get the room had confirmed as much.

The proprietor was old and slow, his TV turned up so loud that Sam had to wince. But he was nice, and the unexpected kindness brought a lump to Sam's throat. All he could remember from the last week was pain and horror and fear, up to and including coming aware to agony in his arm and Dean punching him and then falling over, injuries unknown. It was easy to forget good things sometimes.

Sam paid for the room with cash, collected the keys, and signed the ledger with a scrawl. He was halfway to the door when he looked up and realized.

The Impala was gone.

He lunged through the door, just seeing the taillights flare down the road to his right. In the place of the car sat Sam's duffel and their first aid kit on the gravel.

Oh, God. Momentary anger gave way to rush of despair so intense, it staggered him on his feet. Sam's heart pounded in his ears, his head light, his gut heavy. Dean had left him. Alone. Now, after a week of Sam not being himself, after months of worrying what he was becoming. After years of him always being the one who always took off.

His last line of defense, his _brother_, was gone.

Sam stood in the empty parking lot and felt utterly and completely lost.

00000

_You're not getting out of this._

Sam hadn't meant it as a threat or a pronouncement of doom. He had the right to know what Meg had been up to with his body, even if Dean would have happily gotten shot a second time rather than relive the last few days. But he'd fully intended to tell Sam about Jo, about the exorcism…about what happened at the dock. Later, when Sam found his footing a little and when blood wasn't trickling down Dean's arm under his jacket and when they both didn't look just shy of corpses.

But, _you're not getting out of this. _And it was true. He was trapped in this nightmare of constantly losing Sam, of being hunted by both evil and the supposedly good, of promises to his brother and father.

And suddenly, Dean couldn't breathe, couldn't think beyond the need to get out of there.

He wasn't—quite—able to abandon Sam, taking the time to fish his brother's bag and the kit for that still-untreated burn from the back. Dean dropped them on the ground outside his door, then stared at the tall figure inside until his eyes blurred. He couldn't leave Sam defenseless, couldn't just _leave _like Sam had left him before. But he couldn't stay, either, not at the moment. He'd suffocate, trying to wear his mask right now.

"Sorry, Sammy," Dean whispered, and put the car in reverse. Driving away was both the hardest and the easiest thing he'd done in a long time.

He had no notion of where he was going besides _away. _Some place where he had a little time to think and room to breathe and didn't have to pretend he wasn't gutted. Not far, because the big brother in him always won over any sense of self-preservation, and Sam was vulnerable these days.

_You need to save him, Dean. _

He just needed a few minutes, a little space…

The bar was like home coming into sight, a welcome spot of familiarity in the suddenly unfamiliar landscape of his life, and Dean felt his chest loosen as he pulled into the neon-lit lot. A few beers, a little meaningless conversation, and maybe, maybe he'd be strong enough to wear his game face again.

_Pathetic._

Dean winced, reached up to clutch his shoulder. It had started bleeding again when Meg—he refused to think of _it_ as Sam—clawed a thumb into it. Dean had refused Bobby's quiet offer to treat him, aware that Sam would find out then, still protecting his brother because Dean didn't know how to do anything else. But the injury had taken its toll and, God, he was tired. He flinched at another slow wave of nauseating pain. Tired and hurt.

His hand dropped away from his shoulder, reaching for the door handle. Fingers just brushing the metal before slipping off.

His eyes welled with unfamiliar moisture, and Dean brushed at them angrily. _So _not the time or place. He just wanted a beer, wanted to go in there and lose himself for a little while and forget. But his strength had trickled out of him with the blood, warm on his cold skin, and he couldn't find the energy to make his limbs work. There was nothing left. Nothing with which to protect Sam, from himself, from the natural world that didn't get it, from the supernatural world that unfortunately did, even from Dean. And that hurt worst of all.

_You couldn't save your dad…and you know that you can't save your brother._

He tipped his head back against the seat, too heavy to move, his eyelids sinking with the weight. A few minutes. That was all he wanted. Just to breathe…

00000

He'd finally gone to the room because he had no other place to go.

It was unusually cozy, warm blue and white walls and beds, with the kind of fat pillows Dean loved. Sam set his duffel on the far bed, then ignored his surroundings and started pacing.

Okay, Dean was gone. Maybe he'd just taken off for a beer; it would hardly be the first time he wanted some time alone. He was pretty beat up, but he'd seemed alert and okay in the car. He just needed a chance to process. Sam got that.

But he always told Sam where he was going and when to expect him. In their line of work, anything less than that was stupid. He never just took off like this. Not like Sam had after Rivergrove. Not like Meg had made him do.

Oh, God. He dropped down dizzily on the bed. Surely Dean wasn't…

No, he'd left Sam his bag and the kit. That was his brother. His brother, who'd apparently finally decided to leave Sam alone.

As if he'd ever wanted that, no matter what he said.

Sam rose again, dragged his hands through his hair. His arm still hurt, and he latched on to that as something to do. Unfortunately, cleaning and wrapping a burn didn't take long. Five minutes later, he was pacing again, worrying his lip.

Sam flicked the TV on as he passed it and made himself sit down on the edge of the bed to watch. It was the wee hours of the morning, nothing but infomercials and…televangelism shows on? Was it Sunday? He had no clue what the date was anymore, wouldn't have even known he'd been gone for a week if Dean hadn't told him. The thought again of how he'd spent that week had him tasting bile and shying away from the thought, and Sam forced himself to concentrate on the TV.

He finally turned it off because the noise was ratcheting up his headache. Sam chewed the inside of his cheek and stood to go look out the window at the empty lot and road beyond. Was this what it had been like for Dean when Sam had snuck off in the middle of the night to go find answers? He'd deliberately left most of his stuff behind as pledge he was coming back, but this not knowing, the burning worry, the sheer solitude: was that what he'd inflicted unknowingly on his brother?

_Please, Sam, I'm begging you. Please._

Uh, yeah.

Fine, he got it now. He really did. He sucked as a brother even before his knuckles were painted with Dean's blood. Lesson learned; Dean could come back now. Sam thought he might go crazy if he was left alone with his thoughts much longer, and how twistedly ironic was that?

There was no throaty growl outside, though.

Sam folded into a chair, scrubbing his face. No, Dean hadn't left to teach him a lesson. That wasn't his way, and besides, Sam had believed him when he'd said he didn't blame Sam for any of this. Dean was hurting, and the stupid jackass had taken off to lick his wounds in private. Because that always worked so well for them. Because he hadn't spent the last month trying to drill it into Sam that that wasn't how they worked.

Sam's head snapped up.

It wasn't how they worked.

He grabbed his jacket on the way out the door.

The motel parking lot wasn't completely empty. A decaying Datsun sat in the far corner, and a few spaces down, a not much younger Ford. Sam strode that way, glancing around as he went. No one in sight, all the lights off except in the main office.

A minute later, he was pulling out into the road in the purloined Ford.

Okay, he had a general direction for Dean. There was no telling how far his brother was going, but something in Sam said not far. No matter how messed up they got, no matter what pressures Dean succumbed to, protection—love—was too much a part of him to leave Sam unprotected for long. Maybe a year ago, but not now, not with everything that had been happening. Dean was close, he was…

At a bar.

Sam slowed, jaw slackening. Only the front fender of the Impala was visible past the truck it was parked behind, but that was enough. Besides, this was the kind of place Dean would go…normally. Sam just hadn't expected to see him here now. All this worry and strain, and Dean really had just gone out for a beer?

He almost turned around. Went back to stew in the room and figure out what he was going to yell at Dean when he returned. Dean had never actually said it in so many words, but Sam had heard anyway: they didn't _do _this, didn't just walk out on each other, because bad things happened when they did.

Like having your body and mind ripped away from you.

Sam stopped on the side of the road, burying his face for a moment against his hands on the steering wheel. Was he coming after Dean because he was worried about his brother or because he was scared for himself? The feeling of being trapped, being used, swamped him with terror whenever his control slipped. He couldn't face this alone.

But Dean couldn't, either.

Sam's forehead lifted at the realization. No matter what his big brother had thought or how strong he felt he had to be for Sam, they needed each other. The same ties that made them both each other's greatest weakness was what made them the only person who could help, too.

Fine. Sam swung into the parking lot. If it was his turn to drive that into Dean's head, he would. After they'd shared a beer and managed to put a little distance between themselves and recent events like Dean seemed to need to. But damned if they wouldn't do it together.

He'd stalked halfway to the bar's door when he glanced back at the Impala, now in full view, then slowed. Was that…was Dean sitting in the car? It looked like someone was behind the wheel, but without Dean's height. And there was no movement, the car turned off, the figure motionless. Frowning, Sam veered away from the door, toward the lot.

It only took a few steps to get close enough to sort out what he was seeing. It _was_ Dean, head tipped back and to the side, eyes closed, body slumped and still.

Sam started running.

The door was unlocked, and he yanked it open as he reached it, instantly leaning down. "Dean! Dean, wake up."

There might have been a groan; Dean's head rolled a little. But he didn't move, eyelids not even twitching.

Sam growled his frustration as he pressed two fingers into the base of his brother's jaw. Pulse rapid, skin cool but not clammy, and up close Sam could see he was breathing too fast. Not shock, then—blood loss? The side Dean had been protecting…

He quickly ran a hand down Dean's ribs, then up to his shoulder to make a pass down his arm. Unexpected bulk over the joint met his fingers, and Sam's face creased in puzzlement. He slid one hand under the lapel of Dean's jacket.

The shirt was damp and tacky, and when Sam pulled his hand out, blood gleamed black on his fingertips under the bar's parking lot lights.

Sam bit off a curse. "Stubborn idiot," he ground out, gently pulling the jacket back over the obviously injured shoulder, then dropping his hand to check the pulse again, this time in the wrist. It was weaker than he liked, but he'd done enough battlefield triage to know Dean wasn't in danger of hemorrhaging out on him. Yet.

Sam left the hurt arm tucked into Dean's lap and pushed him lightly with one hand against his ribs, the other curled over his good shoulder. He managed to get Dean horizontal, then shoved his brother over a few inches with effort and moved his legs so Sam could cram himself into the driver's seat. His own injured arm flexed with the movement, but funny how it and the tortures of the last week had suddenly faded in importance. Sam's thoughts were only on the limp figure beside him as he started the car and slammed the door shut after him.

Dean muttered something, body rocking a moment before going still.

Sam couldn't make up his mind between anger and worry, decided he could do both. "Shut up," he said softly, hand resting on the curve of Dean's back. He wondered for a second if his touch would remind Dean of one of the last contacts they'd had, Sam's fist in Dean's face, but apparently twenty-three years won out over twenty-four hours. Dean sighed, a sound of loss, and stilled.

Sam drove one-handed the scant mile back to their motel.

"Home, sweet home," he murmured with a voice that still didn't sound like his as he pulled up in front of their door. Dean didn't say anything. Sam stared at him a moment, loosely fisting the short hair at the back of Dean's neck, then gently sliding his palm underneath to pull him up. Dean's body rolled loosely, unresisting. Sam cinched him close with one arm, closing his eyes and inhaling his scent and pretending for a moment they were kids again and Dean could protect him from everything.

Exhaling shakily, Sam slid out backwards, taking Dean with him, then pulled and folded his brother over one shoulder for the trip inside.

He laid Dean out carefully on the bed closest the door, one arm around his shoulders to keep them from jarring against the mattress. Dean flinched and muttered something but didn't rouse, and Sam suspected his _shushs_ were wasted.

He closed and locked the door, fixing the line of salt along the threshold, then gathered supplies and water before returning to the bed. He took a deep breath.

"All right, let's see what I've been up to."

Sam moved with extreme gentleness, now when it was too late. He eased off what clothes he could, cut what he couldn't. He assessed, examined, cleaned as he went: intact ribs, bruised jaw and temple, an older bruise just starting to blossom across one cheek. The trail of tacky blood down Dean's arm and torso. And, finally, its source.

The wound was ugly; it looked almost like a blunt-force injury, something tearing the skin instead of cutting it. But some of the edges were a little blackened and rounded, and Sam recognized from experience what he was looking at.

He rocked back, appalled. A really messed-up bullet wound.

He'd shot Dean. No, _Meg _had shot Dean. Sam couldn't even remember it, as much as he reluctantly racked his mind.

Of course, Meg wasn't who Dean would have seen pulling the trigger. Or the reason he hadn't defended himself.

There was a powerful temptation in Sam sometimes to give up. To stop fighting and fleeing and being scared and just…sink. It was Dean who'd always kept him afloat in the worst of it, who threw him lines to hold on to. That was what he felt now, the desire to just sit down and let it all go and sob nearly overwhelming.

But Dean was silent, shot by Sam's hand.

Sam blinked back tears until he could see again, then sucked in a breath and got to work.

Infection hadn't set in yet, but it threatened. Whoever had removed the bullet—Jo? Bobby?—had done a poor job, not putting in stitches nor cleaning it very thoroughly. Jo then, probably. And the skin was swollen and torn, leaking blood, like someone had dug into it afterward. Sam tried really hard not to think about that one. It wasn't the first time he'd fixed holes in his brother's flesh, but it was one of the most sickening. Sam probed and cleaned and pressed in silence, ignoring Dean's faint gasps and writhes. Sam was the cause of all this, and would not bring solace to Dean now. Sam's teeth crushed together as he worked and tried to shut everything else out but the ugly wound.

Dean's eyes fluttered, glazed and vague. "Sammy?"

Sam wrenched in a breath like it was the first in a long time. He couldn't do this. Not to punish himself, not at the risk of punishing Dean. He leaned over his brother, bloody fingers sliding off Dean's shoulder to squeeze his upper arm. "I'm here," he managed. "I'm here, Dean."

The unfocused eyes didn't see him, but apparently they didn't need to. "Good," was the faintest of murmurs as Dean closed his eyes and sank back into the bed.

There was a steady drip of tears onto Dean's blankets as Sam finished, and soft words and light touches every time Dean stirred. It worked every time, too.

The shoulder finally wrapped correctly, Sam cocooned his patient in blankets and coaxed him into swallowing some painkillers and sugar-laced water. Then he sank down on the floor next to the bed. He was too tired to sit up on the bed any longer, too pained to claim the brotherly right of co-opting a sibling's bed, and too broken to go far. Wedged into the space between the bed and nightstand, Dean breathing inches from his ear, Sam's world was as right as it was going to get. He breathed in and out a few times, rubbing wetness off his face, shaking his head. Every time he thought they'd hit bottom…

How many ledges would he slam into on the way down?

00000

Danger. Fear. Alone. _Sammy. _

Dean jerked awake with a gasp, adrenaline cushioning everything but the overwhelming sense of _NEED._

"Dean?" Sam was scrambling up from the floor beside the bed—_what the…?_—and the need faded. Everything he needed was right here.

Probably. "Christo," Dean whispered.

Sam flinched, but that was emo-Sammy, not evil bitch-possessed Sam. It matched the haunted, reddened eyes and the gaze that couldn't quite stay on him.

And then Dean remembered what he'd been doing before he'd taken an impromptu nap and had apparently been hauled back to the motel room by his brother, and he cringed, too. "How far'd I get?" His voice sounded weak, and, frowning, he started a quick self-inventory. Head hurt, but intact—check.

"Bar parking lot," Sam said quietly, way too even. "You passed out in the car."

Four limbs present—check. "I was just resting up," Dean defended absently.

"Right. Bleeding and unresponsive." Sam's eyes cut sideways to his. "You should have told me, Dean."

Shoulder—ow. Dean automatically stiffened, and stifled a groan when the lazy warm throb became hot and sharp.

Sam's long fingers steadied him at arm and chest, chanting a soft "Easy, easy" that was more comforting in just letting him hear Sam's voice than in content. There really wasn't anything easy about this.

"Son of a…" Dean breathed through the pain, feeling it slowly withdraw as he stayed very, very still.

One of Sam's hands moved away, and a few seconds later it was nudging pain pills past Dean's parted lips. He'd have been annoyed at the babying except he really didn't want to move either arm right now, so he accepted the pills, then sucked a few sips from the squeeze-top water bottle that followed them. He could add it to the list of embarrassments that included a really crappy attempt at running away and his baby brother needing to come cart his ass back home.

Once he could breathe halfway normally again, Dean reopened his eyes. Sam's flushed and downcast face was the first thing he saw, and he had a sudden idea what his brother had been doing however long he'd been sitting on the floor beside Dean's bed. Dean swallowed a sigh, still feeling too tired to deal with all this. It wasn't fair, both of them being broken at the same time. The least they deserved was getting to take turns.

But the desperate need for breathing room from the night before had faded, and the whole mask thing just seemed stupid now. If Sam could survive an enemy inside his skin for a week, Dean could let him inside Dean's own a little. It was time to take the reins and be the big brother again.

Which, at the moment, meant waiting for Sam to sort out what he wanted to say. Dean put effort into keeping his eyes open and alert, tacitly offering to listen.

"I'm sorry," Sam finally murmured.

Okay, he'd sort of been expecting something more along the lines of _Why did you leave/not tell me you were hurt/go to a bar?_, but knowing Sam, this wasn't all that surprising. Dean rolled his head slightly on the pillow. "It wasn't you." He'd said it before and would probably say it again, but he'd repeat it as often as Sam needed to hear it.

"That's not what I'm apologizing for," and this time Sam really did throw him. Dean blinked, trying to read his brother's expression and having trouble doing so. It hit him belatedly that he wasn't used to this angle, looking up at Sam—well, looking up _this_ much, anyway—and Dean grimaced and began the laborious process of pushing himself upright.

Sam quickly jumped to help, and Dean consoled himself that it was for the kid's sake he was letting him. Then, it was all about concentrating through red pain and white heat and black vision until he was hunched and panting against the headboard. Dang, this had been a lot easier the day before, but then he'd had fear for Sam and fury at the thing inside him to carry Dean over the pain.

"Y'all right?" came Sam's quiet, hesitant drawl.

Dean nodded, a little jerkily. "Peachy." Oh, yeah, the gritted-teeth gravel of that was really convincing. He nodded again, urging Sam to continue while Dean tried to convince his body it was happy to be sitting up. He certainly preferred it. "You were saying?"

"Dean…" Sam stopped, shook his head with that little laugh that didn't mean humor so much as a spill of emotion, then rubbed his face. "I'm sorry."

"You said that already," Dean pointed out.  
"Would you just shut up and let me do this?"

Dean's mouth twitched but he obeyed.

Sam peered at him earnestly. "Dean, when I asked you to tell me what Dad said—which I did have the right to know—but I…man, I told you I wanted to help you carry the weight of whatever Dad had told you, but ever since then I've just been adding to it, haven't I? No wonder you burned rubber last night. I mean, I take off on you, I make you promise you'll kill me, then I get possessed and _shoot_ you—"

"You didn't shoot me," Dean interrupted quickly.

Sam blinked. "Fine, Meg—"

"How do you even know it's a bullet wound?"

Sam's face twisted this time, confused. "Of course it's a bullet wound—it's obviously a traumatized excised wound with bullet wipe on the—"

"I'll show you trauma," Dean muttered, still trying to get comfortable and failing. "Dude, quit with the CSI lesson, okay? I'm just sayin', you don't know what happened." He curled his right arm around his aching left one. The painkillers were starting to kick in, but still. Only on TV were shoulders good places to get shot.

"So tell me," Sam said quietly.

Dean sighed. "We had a bad week, all right? She screwed both of us over, Sam, she just happened to borrow your body to do it, end of story."

Sam glanced at him through those bangs, unruly and in his face again as they had been before Dad's death had made them both grow up. "You didn't leave…because I…?"

Dean made a face at him. "No, I told you, Sam, that wasn't you. I just…needed some time to think." And, apparently, to keel over. Good plan.

A tiny smile. "So you don't want to hear I'm sorry?"

Dean snorted. "Oh, no, you'd better be sorry—I got shot, dude!"

"I thought you said—"

"Yeah, well, exercised wounds don't lie, right?"

"Excised."

"Whatever." He would have shrugged if he hadn't figured that was a monumentally bad idea.

Sam looked at him, eyes a little too bright. "Dean."

Dean let his eyes slide shut, and was way too grateful when Sam sidled closer, hip touching Dean's leg, so he could feel his brother even when he couldn't see him. Sam knew him too well, and that was frightening and a relief all at once. "You do help with the weight, okay? More than you know, Sammy. Just…enough with the friggin' guilt trips or talking about putting you down. The only evidence we have of you going evil is a demon's not-exactly-reliable word, and wasting you just in case you _maybe might_ go bad someday is Gordon's screwed-up argument. So if you want to help, just drop it."

"Jerk," Sam mumbled without heat, and paused. "Fine. You're gonna save me anyway, right?" It was said with a smile but a very real need for reassurance behind it. _You're not gonna let the monsters get me, Dean, right? _

And he needed Sam to believe he could do it. "Swear to God, Sammy," Dean said earnestly, the flip answer dying unspoken on his lips.

That seemed to take Sam off guard, and he colored, eyes dropping, while he smoothed out worn-thin blankets. The soft scratch of skin over fabric was lulling, and Dean let himself drift a moment. He roused only with the soft, "Hey, you want me to leave you alone for a while, man? I could get another room if you want some space."

Dean's eyes snapped open. "_No!_" Well, so much for his coolness factor. Dean's jaw worked for a moment while the flare in his shoulder and the surprise in Sam's eyes died down. "Every time you leave, you get into trouble and I get beat up," he grumbled. "I want you where I can see you."

"All right," Sam agreed. He hesitated, then pushed himself higher on the bed, settling next to Dean, shoulders touching.

Dean's eyes drifted shut again. It was warm and quiet and Sam was there, and his shoulder was back down to a dull ache. In all, it was the best he'd been in over a week. Another thought surfaced, and Dean asked drowsily, "How's your arm, dude?"

"It hurts," Sam said frankly. "I'll live. I'm kinda glad for it, actually—it's like a reminder or something that she's gone."

"Hmm." His own injuries were a reminder she'dbeen there in the first place, but that wasn't what Dean was dwelling on. Outside their room, a couple was passing by, arguing loudly.

_"…swear I don't know what the car was doing at the bar, honey! I didn't go anywhere last night!"_

_"Don't you give me that, Herman, I know you…" _They faded as they went past.

Sam cleared his throat, and Dean found he wasn't too tired to grin. "Something you want to tell me, Sammy?"

"Shut up," Sam muttered. Paused. "Dean." Hesitated. "I need to know what happened, man. Even if it wasn't me, it still _was_, you know?"

"Yeah," he said on a sigh, half-asleep but tethered to Sam's soft distress. "I'll tell you everything I know later, and we'll figure out the rest. After…" It was beginning to be hard to string words together, the letters rolling every which way. He was leaning more heavily into Sam, but his brother didn't seem to mind and Dean figured he was owed at least this much.

"Everything you know, huh? That shouldn't take long."

The totally unexpected bite of humor had him sputtering a laugh. "Shut up." Dean winced through the jolt of pain from the movement.

"All right, but you're not getting out of this," was the last thing he heard before he dozed off completely.

This time, it was a promise.

**The End**


End file.
